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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173785">Oleander Mornings, Foxglove Nights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonEyez/pseuds/DragonEyez'>DragonEyez</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>classwork that slapped [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dracula - Bram Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, i guess?, idk i wanted to write gay dracula, it's about the yearning, mina's mentioned but she's not a main character so i didn't want to tag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:34:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,384</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonEyez/pseuds/DragonEyez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing you notice when he sweeps you into his castle is his eyes. They’re hypnotic, and you find yourself staring into them far longer than socially acceptable. You don’t even know <i>why</i> you feel such an impulse, but it seems almost as if there’s an answer to a question you didn’t know you’ve been asking all your life hides somewhere behind the pupils. He catches you looking and flashes a smile that’s too bright to be real. You’re so struck by the gesture you don’t pay much mind to how there’s almost too many teeth in it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dracula/Jonathan Harker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>classwork that slapped [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Oleander Mornings, Foxglove Nights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was a short story assignment for class and i was simply vibing</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing you notice when he sweeps you into his castle is his eyes. They’re hypnotic, and you find yourself staring into them far longer than socially acceptable. You don’t even know <i>why</i> you feel such an impulse, but it seems almost as if there’s an answer to a question you didn’t know you’ve been asking all your life hides somewhere behind the pupils. He catches you looking and flashes a smile that’s too bright to be real. You’re so struck by the gesture you don’t pay much mind to how there’s almost too many teeth in it. But then he ushers you further in, shows you your room, the study, the library. </p><p>“I hope you’ll find your stay here pleasant while you work. I know some may find the size...discomfiting. Hopefully you’ll grow to appreciate the space instead of resent it. One upon a time, this was the home of my entire family line, bustling. But now, I’m afraid there’s only me. Well. I have nieces who sometimes wander the halls, though I don’t know how often you shall see them. They’re what I believe you Englishmen would call ‘night owls.’” He chuckles, as if there was something funny about that statement, but you chalk it up to how odd the English language can be sometimes, especially to a non-native speaker. Lord knows you’ve had the same reaction often enough learning French.</p><p>“It’s a lovely estate. I’m sure I’ll have no problems during my stay. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I believe I should go get settled in. I’d like to get started first thing in the morning, and it was a <i>long</i> journey here.”</p><p>“Of course. I shan’t keep you. Good night, Mr. Harker.” </p><p>The way he says your name sounds dangerous, and you don’t know why. When you turn to go back to your room, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you pretend you don’t notice.</p><p>You pretend not to notice a great many things while you do what is supposed to be a very routine job in a very odd manor. The country is strange and old, as is the manor, as is the master of it. He keeps odd hours, never seeming to sleep. The curtains are always drawn, though that’s not a problem with the number of candles lit in the rooms you spend the most time in. Some of the documents seem out of place. Written in strange script, languages you have never seen in all your years, accounts of historic events far too twisted to have been real, clerical paperwork filed away in an incomprehensible filing system. </p><p>Your host keeps you company through it all, a small comfort in all of this. When not working, you write letter after letter to your fiancée, telling her about your journey and everything that has happened since. You tell her of the paperwork, the emptiness of the manor, the strange journals and documents. You do not tell her how you increasingly find  yourself staring after your host. How he looks at you as if figuring out how best to devour you. How you find yourself beginning to think you may never return to England. </p><p>He never seems to eat.</p><p>He shares meals with you of course and rarely misses the occasion with you and hear you chatter on about what you’ve discovered in his library or about your life back in England. But he doesn’t eat. There is only ever a place setting for you at the banquet table, and a glass of red, red wine for him. You ask him about it once, but he merely laughs at the question. Says he prefers to take his meals in solitude. </p><p>“An old habit I’ve formed, I’m afraid. One spends enough time alone and becomes self-conscious about their table manners. You must understand.”</p><p>“Of course. I simply wanted to ensure you…” The words slipped off your tongue and suddenly you’ve forgotten what it was you were trying to say. “Well. I’m not quite sure what I was trying to ensure. It seems that I’ve lost that particular thought.”</p><p>He smiles at you, and once again, there’s the flash of perfectly uniform teeth. A perfect smile overall. Nobility has all the luck in these things. Cold fingers touch your own, and you realize your friend is patting your hand. “Happens to the best of us. No shame in that. I’ve come to learn over the years that the human mind is such a fallible thing. No matter; I believe you were telling me of where you and your fiancée like to holiday.” He’s right of course, that was the topic of conversation before you trailed off. A silly thing for you to have forgotten. You think you might be spending too much time in the darkness with dusty tomes and resolve to take a walk on the castle grounds come morning. </p><p>That night, you wake to moonlight streaming over your face. At first you can’t tell what it was that woke you. You’ve always been a sound sleeper, so to wake like this leaves you disoriented as you scrub the sleep from your eyes and gaze about the room. It’s the curtains, you soon realize. You have no recollection of leaving them open, in fact as you become more alert you remember you had closed them as you came to bed, not wanting to allow the light of the full moon to keep you awake. Or at least you thought you had. As you draw the curtains closed, you realize the door is open, which you certainly closed. Though by no means a suspicious person, you prefer your privacy and thus the door remains shut overnight. How odd, then, that it would sit ajar. That too is closed and you slide back into bed and to sleep. You blame the sensation of being watched on the surprise of finding your door open and shove away the paranoia in favor of blissful oblivion.</p><p>You start locking your door after that, and for a while, you feel better about the whole thing. It’s easier, after a couple weeks, to chalk the whole thing up to a vivid dream. It hadn’t happened since, so you begin to believe your imagination was simply acting up. Your host has taken to spending more time with you in the evenings. He presses into your space, leaning against your back to pour over documents with you. Everytime, you catch a whiff of something heady, some sort of scent you can’t place, but it makes your head spin and you find yourself clutching at your pen too tightly. One night you hold too hard and find ink staining your hands. </p><p>With an exasperated sigh, you set the thing down and begin hunting in your pockets for your handkerchief, only to find black lace blocking your vision. Surprised, you look up to see a pale hand holding it out in offering.</p><p>“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly ruin your handkerchief like that. I have one of my own let me simply-”</p><p>“My dear Jonathan.” His cool voice stops your protestations dead. “It’s of no consequence to me, I have many more, and I believe I distracted you enough to cause the incident in the first place. I insist.”</p><p>His tone left no room for argument, so you reluctantly take it. The cloth, much like its owner, is odd. A strange texture, and stranger color. Briefly, you are at least thankful that the ink wouldn’t visibly stain the fabric. When you try to hand it back, he waves away your hand. “Please, keep it. And now, I believe it would be best to have dinner. Shall we?” He offers out a hand once more, and you don't hesitate to take it. When he pulls you out of your chair effortlessly, you have to bite back a small noise of surprise, but he doesn’t seem to notice. That night you write to your fiancée.</p><p>Three nights later, your door is open again, but this time you’re not alone. A redheaded woman is straddling your chest, her hair tickling your nose as she leans down, and in your sleep addled state you ask “Mina?” She lets out an unearthly hiss and it is then that the reality of the situation hits you. You try to throw her off of you, to get up, anything really, but it’s as if she’s made of lead, and she shifts to grasp your throat with one hand, crushing it with unearthly strength. You manage to shout once before she starts cutting off your air. </p><p>Spots fill your vision and you begin to wonder if this is going to be how you die. Leagues upon leagues from home in an unfriendly country with no one the wiser. Your fiancée will be beside herself. Will she ever know of the tragedy or simply be doomed to unanswered questions for the rest of your life? </p><p>The weight is gone for some reason, and you can barely register the sound of a body hitting stone above the way you’re sucking in air like a fish. </p><p>“<i>Out!</i>” You hear thunder. “Did I not tell you he was off limits? Did I not warn you of the consequences? Gather your sisters and get out of my sight before you learn the full extent of my wrath!”</p><p>Sitting up, you see that it’s him. Or at least, you think it is. His form seems too large, his hair wild and eyes like embers. If he was an animal, you think his hackles would be raised. On the floor, you see your would-be murderess struggling to get to her feet. In two strides, he has gripped her by the hair and raised her to her feet. “<i>OUT!</i>” She hisses at him, and you see a mouth full of razors glinting in the moonlight. Ice floods your veins and you realize how much danger you have been in this whole time. For a moment, you fear she will attack, but she only scurries out of the room with a dirty look.</p><p>It is only when she is gone that your savior turns to you and sits on the edge of your bed, careful to avoid touching you. He seems to be examining you, reaches out a hand hesitantly. “May I look?”</p><p>You don’t trust yourself to speak, and instead only bare your throat to allow him to inspect the damage. His fingers are a ghost’s whisper against the stinging flesh. You know it will be bruised in the morning, and you wonder how best to hide the marks. Already you know you will never speak of the attack to Mina. </p><p>“Johnathan…” You don’t know that you’ve ever seen him look hesitant. This man oozes confidence, every step is taken with surety. He looks deeply sorrowful in a way that fills you with a nameless pain. “My friend I have no words. I never imagined- I believed it safe for you here. I must apologize.”</p><p>His fingers are still at your throat, and the contrast of the gentleness now from the attack earlier is enough to make your pulse flutter in your chest. Hesitantly, you reach up a hand of your own and take his. “There is nothing to apologize for. In fact, I believe I should be thanking you for rescuing me. I truly feared the worst.”</p><p>“When I entered the room, I did as well. Be grateful you encountered the niece who prefers to play with her food.” His face darkened, an expression that didn’t belong on such marble. You’ve never been one for art, numbers have always held your heart, but in that moment, you think of how you would like to draw this moment. Having no such skill, you impulsively place a soft kiss against his knuckles. </p><p>The pair of you freeze, and you realize what it is you have just done. You part your lips to say something, but the way his eyes have darkened stops you. You blink, and in that instant he is gone. </p><p>In the morning, you pack your bags.</p><p>There are papers to be collected in the office, so you stop in to gather them. You notice your pen is still laying on the desk where you abandoned it. With a smile, you leave it alone. This one can stay here, a memory for your host. You move slowly as you work, though due to the pain that strikes when you move your head too fast or to some sense of reluctance, you don’t know. Even if you did, you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. Once everything is in order, you leave for the door. You feel guilty, wonder if you should leave a note. The attack isn’t what has you running; strangely, you feel perfectly safe after the display last night. Despite the violence, despite the threat, it would be fine. No, you simply don’t wish to stay knowing you have made your friend so deeply uncomfortable. The way the man fled last night, you would have thought the hounds of hell were baying at his feet. You regret the reaction, not the action.</p><p>At the front door, several large crates take up space in the foyer. In your confusion, you trip over your own feet. Before you can crash to the ground, a steady hand catches you.</p><p>“Oh good, you’re packed. Saves me the trouble of having to rush you.” </p><p>“Sir?” You turn to see the man you had planned to leave behind gently gripping your arm. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>His hand travels down your arm, stopping to catch your hand and raise it to his lips. “After the events of last night, I decided it was time to travel to England and finish the remainder of this house business there. I was planning to alert you to this, but it seems you are already prepared.” A shiver runs down your spine at the fangs you see behind his smile.</p><p>“What’s in the crates?”</p><p>“Earth, of course. A little something from home. Now come, I’ve already arranged for a carriage, and we still have so much left to do.” </p><p>You allow him to drag you back to the office. You know you would allow him to drag you anywhere.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sometimes you accompany your human lover back to his home in england meet his fiancée and he decides to assist you in you living your vampiric life and his fiancée encourages it bc shes also sleeping w/ her best friend on the side and fully supports your boyfriends life</p><p>i couldve turned this into a whole thing about how dracula and jonathan go back to england and terrify the nation however i did not. </p><p>as always, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated, and i can be found <a href="https://theunacceptablepylades.tumblr.com/">here</a> on tumblr and <a href="https://twitter.com/frabjousgay">@frabjousgay</a> on twitter</p></blockquote></div></div>
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